Honestly, I love my cousin's party flair (sociability) and good looks -- qualities I lack, unfortunately -- so we hang out, have fun, chat on and on till the wee hours, you know, the usual. I wondered where she was for a second, then moved on, walking up the stairs one step at a time (my left foot was injured and I feared I wouldn't make it up the stairs at a faster pace).

When I'm sick the first thought to hit me -- most of the time -- is how much of a loser I am, the disease ain't important, it merely helps the realization along. Personal details: 21, single, unemployed, college drop-out, the opposite of fit (fat? chubby? lard-ass?). I'm sure it could be worse, I'm sure plenty of guys have it worse, but, trust me, it isn't much of a consolation, especially when you look in the mirror and see the real you, and by "the real you", I mean, the real me: an unfit schmuck filled with dreams of grandeur, bursting to get out. My faults all.

There are second thoughts and -- even -- third thoughts, most go poof easily enough and I find myself back at square one, more grizzled and bored than before. Dead Russians

were a "hobby" of mine: Dostoevsky, Stravinsky, Shostakovitch, Chekhov.

I blame this on my father as he was the first to introduce me to their work as child. Children are impressionable, sure -- you hear that a lot, enough to start believing it, enough to start carving it on your tongue. They get duped into swearing by everything and anything, from Angie "The Tooth Fairy" to the creepy old man (in the closet) who slashes your eyes (with his ine auric chisel) if you don't go to sleep by nine. He's a pretty tough guy, presumably, though I for one never understood why we don't just throw away our closets and be done with it.

Problem solved.

To this day, part of me still thinks of Angie as me mum, even thought I know it to be false, genetically. I know her relation to my father and -- obviously -- know all about their recent fights, minor bruises (hers) and loads of paper-work drivel in preparation for their -- ever closer -- divorce trial. A shame, sure, but there's nothing you can do -- nothing you should do.

Well.

I'm going to describe my uncle - briefly for I do not consider him a man worthy of countless adjectives and pompous phrases: gray hair, long and dirty; face perfectly shaved, stocky with particularly short legs and even shorter T-Rex arms - the only bloke he's ever towered over was this midget called Charley who used to hang around Ed's factory - he's a retired entrepreneur - doing God knows what or God knows why. I've only seen him wear three T-shirts, two are white, the other's black with that Iron Maiden freak imprinted on the back - memories of youth, I suppose; black jeans or white boxers - depending on company and, of course, mood.

I have relatively fond memories of Uncle Edward -- a bigot, sure, but never boring, never mundane, never dull, daft or banal. What he is: smug, brash, intolerant, often condescending, a lout-mouthed drooling Shepherd barking in the rain. Over the years, he's kept his American accent in perfect condition.

He'll never admit to enjoying (or loving, or caring for) anything English

out of principle alone -- except (perhaps) the skank he had for a wife/lover/soul-mate -- and spends his time, or better yet our time, whining and complaining endlessly about those little things (those little issues) that make our lives here all the more unpleasant. All said and done, an interesting man to have a quick word with before going back to our oh so real -- outside -- world.

I knocked on his door.

Three times.

I waited outside -- patiently -- for a good three minutes, all this time I continued knocking on the door -- hoping the old man would wake up. Eventually, he did. Uncle Edward has never been keen on personal hygiene,

to put it frankly, he was a dirty bum wasting away his life in near perfect isolation. He's been in this condition ever since his wife -- Sandra -- died two years ago. I attended the funeral service. She was a mean-spirited bitch full of herself and low on anything resembling love or personal -- human -- warmth, but he cared for her and -- really -- what can you do? You simply